I Miss You
by Sam The Russia
Summary: "I just needed to tell you, Sherlock." John writes to Sherlock, and hopes he will read it. Post-Falls. Johnlock.
1. John's Post

You know, I really hate this, Sherlock. I _hate_ this. More than anything in the world, I just want all of this to _stop_. I want things to be like they were. Maybe I don't like change. Maybe I just miss you.

I miss proving Donovan wrong and pissing Anderson off with you. Did you know his first name is Sylvia? I'm sure you did; still thought you'd get a kick out of it.

I miss having a cuppa with you and Mrs. Hudson on quiet evenings. Even when you were still in your night robes from the evening before, and refused to converse with us on account of just how lost in boredom you were. Even those things, stupid and silly as they are; I miss them.

I miss the adrenaline rush I got when I was around you, from chasing down cabbies across town, or running from phsycopaths in the middle of London. I miss forgetting about my limp, like I did. I know it was phsycosomatic. It still is, I suppose. It just sort of came back. I use the cane now; you know, the one I left at Angelo's the first night we teamed up.

As much as I hate to admit it, I miss getting calls from Lestrade or Mycroft in the middle of everything, because they couldn't find you, or because you simply elected to ignore them. Normally, I believe it was the later.

I miss how amazing it was to watch you tear people apart, with the littlest of details. I miss watching you feel guilty when you would repeatedly hurt Molly's feelings, and not understand why. I miss helping you fix social mistakes, and showing you what not to say to your friends.

And, even though you'd despise us all for it, a year after the incident all of us (as to say, those who cared for you - Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. H, Mycroft, and of course, myself) had a little get together. I told them what you said, about not having friends. It was very strange. All of them disagreed, each for their own reasons.  
Have you ever noticed though, how different each of us are? We all have almost no reason to know another, or at the very least, interact as we do. But that's the very thing, Sherlock. We do. Because of a _friend _we all had. Because of _you._

I miss watching crap telly with you. I miss your apology coffee. I miss your snarky remarks about ordinary people, and our small brains. I even miss bloody _Cluedo._ I miss cleaning while you just hung around thinking in the background. I miss 2 A.M. dinner becasue you hadn't eaten in four days, when we finally finished a case. I miss being kidnapped once a month by your brother, so we could talk about how to keep you safe. I guess that didn't work, did it?

Most of all, I miss being _needed_. I miss _needing_ someone else.

I miss Sherlock Holmes. I miss my best friend. I miss you.

And you know what my therapist did? She asked if there were things I wanted to tell you. Things I never got the chance to say. _Of course there are._ She proceeded to ask what they were. I refused to tell her. Do you know why?

Because I refuse to believe this. You are not that stupid. You can't die because someone _beat_ you. You don't _let _people beat you. I'm not even acknowledging that you said everything was a lie. _Because it wasn't._ No one can convince me of that. Not even you, Sherlock.  
However, there is a second reason, as well.  
Those words... the ones I crammed in the back of my mind, the ones that screamed at me to be let out, the words I can only _wish_ I told you... They are only for you. They are for nobody's ears, nobody's eyes - but yours.

I know you are out there. I see you everywhere, in every pedestrian on the street. But I say nothing; everyone else would think I was crazy, and I know you will turn into just another face on the street the second I acknowledge you. Maybe I am crazy... That would be more comforting, actually. I would finally know what is wrong with me, with... this whole situation.  
But, as I said before, I know you are there.  
Knowing you, you are probably reading this, for whatever reason, instead of coming home and making me stop myself from looking like a complete idiot. Thanks, mate.  
But, here goes.

I wish you were here, so I could tell you just how much I love and respect you. You _are_ my best friend, and I will always believe in you. I want things like they were, so I could tell you this.

In case I really am crazy, and I just wrote all of this for nothing, I am sorry for whoever _is_ reading this, and for wasting your time.

I just needed to tell you, Sherlock.


	2. Unsent Texts

-Messagaing  
-Outbox  
-Unsent  
-Oldest to Most Recent

[To: John Watson]  
John, I'm not dead. -SH

[To: John Watson]  
Meet me at the Yard. -SH

[To: John Watson]  
Molly knows. Mycroft knows. I thought you should, too. -SH

[To: John Watson]  
I'm sorry. Forgive me, John. -SH

[To: Mycroft Holmes]  
I'm sorry for all the trou [unfinished]

[To: Mycroft Holmes]  
Thank you, for keeping him safe. -S

[To: John Watson]  
You will survive without me. -SH

[To: John Watson]  
You should move on. I can't come home. -SH

[To: John Watson]  
Why do you still visit my grave? It won't bring me home. -SH

[To: Lestrade]  
He was right. I'm a fraud. Spread the word. -SH

[To: Molly Hooper]  
Thank you for being here. -SH

[To: Mycroft Holmes]  
Molly and I are out of milk. -S

[To: John Watson]  
How can you still believe in me? -SH

[To: Lestrade]  
You really were my friend, [unfinished]

[To: Molly Hooper]  
We are out of milk. -SH

[To: John Watson]  
It's been three years. I am truly sorry. I saw your post, a year after the incident. Yes, I did read it. No, I was not coming home to stop you from making yourself look like an idiot. I couldn't. I jumped to save you. To save Mrs. Hudson. To save Lestrade. How do you live like this? _Believing?_ It's ridiculous. Really, John... I am lost to your logic.  
Do not mistake me, however. I appreciate. Knowing someone cared cares helped helps me get done what needs to be done. Yes, I left my words crossed out; thought you'd like to see me have to correct myself over something like this. It's what you've done to me.  
I am not dead. I hope you can forgive me, eventually. I missed my best friend, too. I won't be surprised if you punch me in the face. Go ahead. I will be at our flat in twenty minutes. Come if convenient.  
Scratch that. Come if inconvenient. -SH  
[Moving In Progress...]  
[This message has been moved to your Sent Box]


End file.
